


Some Vital Chord

by impossiblewanderings



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bilbo/Bofur broship, Bofur is Ridiculously Lovely, Durin Family, Hurt/Comfort, Nori is Sneaky, Slavery, Thorin is majestic, a little bit soul crushing, and dark secrets, and guilt, but in a good way, in which there are dwarflings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur has his troubles and his regrets, and as the Company travel on their dark and dangerous way to an uncertain fate, secrets long buried begin to come to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Troubles

Bofur always allows a time for his troubles to lie heavy, to crowd on his shoulders and bend his head under their weight. He is of the mind that a trouble ignored festers, swells under the skin, grows malignant and bitter. And the road between the mines and the little drunkenly-leaning shack that he shares with his cousin is a long one and a dark one at the end of the day.

He does not consider it self-indulgence to consider his worries so, as he navigates his way with the stars hanging overhead, but rather as necessary. The dark places of the mind can never be quite so dark if you look at them straight and often, and in time it is more a nagging ache to poke at than a fresh wound. Bofur does not wish to become like his mother, after all. Grief and hate soured her sweet laughing mouth, took the spark from her merry eyes. She once rang so true that no one could see her and not love her, but after the death of his father, she faltered and the blows of life struck her until it hit some vital chord, some faultline deep in the rock of her being, and shattered it.

Bofur likes to be happy, enjoys a pint and the rhythm of tavern music, trickery and ribald jokes, smoking his pipe when a brisk wind whips up around the mountains and he can watch the summer storms roll in across the plains. He likes to watch Bombur cook, the quiet, efficient delight his brother takes in the art, and whittle with his cousin Bifur, only cheap little things, to sell at a pittance and make the dwarflings smile.

And he would not wish suffering on his family, not at any price. Bofur would appear carefree, and strong for those he loves, and so his mind wanders while his feet take the well-worn path. He summons up his old regrets, and lets himself feel the rough scars that criss-cross his spine. He worries about the future; how there seems to be less work at the mine and too many workers, about the winter that lurks ahead, how they will manage if worst comes to worst, with Bifur prone to his periods of absence where he sits with blank eyes and _stares..._

Sometimes Bofur is very glad for the ill-lit road, and the deep twilight that confuses the eyes of curious folk. Sometimes he must stand outside his own door, where the candles gutter and flicker through the dirty windows, and struggle to control himself, so he might walk in with a smile and a wink rather than in tears.

* * *

 

Tonight he takes a good long while to summon any semblance of joy. But he does so, with an effort that grits his teeth, and he throws back the door with an energy he does not feel.

"Evenin', Bifur, how's that carving coming along? Any more terrifying and dwarrowdams will be fainting in the streets- Bombur?"

His brother is there at the table, ginger hair glinting in the dim light, sharing a mug of something with Bifur, and Bofur's heart drops into his boots. There was a chance he could hide his bad news from Bifur, at least for a day or two while he tries to work it out, but Bombur is canny beyond the ken of any normal dwarf.

"Bofur!" His brother says warmly, getting up and knocking his forehead against Bofur's in greeting. He pulls back with a smile that fades as he looks at Bofur, really _looks_.

"What is it? What's happened?"

In his chair, Bifur swings around with a grunt to stare at them both, his drink forgotten.

Pinned between their anxious stares - just what he had been trying to _avoid_ , Mahal damn it all - Bofur sweats.

"Oh, it's nothing - how are the dwarflings?"

"Fine. Bofur, what's wrong?"

"How's Nali? Is she well?"

"She's _fine._ Brother, tell me what's happened."

And now Bifur is up, standing shoulder to shoulder with Bombur, who has succeeded in boxing Bofur into a corner and coward that he is, Bofur can't stand for long against their combined stares. He drops his eyes to the floorboards.

"Korvus told me they wouldn't be needing me for a bit. They closed the east shaft and there's not enough work at the moment-"

"So he replaced you with one of his kinsmen, didn't he?" Bombur demands, his large hands curling into fists.

"He's put in one of those useless, scraggly-bearded tinkers who never swung a mattock in his life! Aye, there's work to be had so long as you're of Blue Mountain stock, and not the refugees of Moria or Erebor!"

"Bombur-" Bofur tries, but Bombur's rages are few and far between, and when they come there's nothing to be done but weather it.

Bifur is punctuating Bombur's tirade with obscene gestures and emphatic nods; Bofur will have no aid from that quarter. Weariness breaks on him all of a sudden, a cold wave that takes his strength, and Bofur sits heavily at the table. The chair beneath him wobbles as it takes his weight; it is poor wood, with a weakness in the grain that cannot be gotten around. Soon they will need new chairs, a new stove- the old iron one is warped and bent and sends thick clouds of smoke billowing through the hut, more wood for Bifur to carve toys from, and without his hours at the mine, where will the money come from?

Bombur and Bifur join him, the former still muttering about the dubious mental acumen and sexual preferences of certain foremen. Bofur doesn't want to hear it, and packs his pipe from their dwindling supply of pipe-weed. The smoke is just the right mix of spice and wood, and he holds it in his lungs until it burns, the stiffness easing slightly in his shoulders and back. Bofur is not listening properly to the conversation, which has shifted, mercifully, away from his current lack of income, but then Bombur says a name that brings him to attention with a start.

"Thorin Oakenshield? As in Thorin son of Thrain?"

"The very same."

"He's going to _what_?"

"Take back Erebor. It's all anyone's talking about at the tavern- Thorin is calling for volunteers. All those loyal to the line of Durin. And there's a pretty share of treasure at the end of it all. A dwarf could set himself up as a lord."

"A dwarf could be dragon-fodder, more like."

But his kin aren't listening. Bombur warms to his topic, naming the poor misguided fools that have already chosen to leave on this mad quest, and Bifur's eyes have a sharp glint to them that Bofur hasn't seen in fifty years or more.

"-and his sister-sons, Fili and Kili, as well, I've heard."

Bofur chokes and has to thump his chest to get a decent breath. Bifur and Bombur are too excited to notice; Bombur is building treasure halls in the air with wide sweeps of his arms, and Bifur's fingers dance in response, a swifter way to gets his thoughts across than his broken fragments of Ancient and ordinary Khuzdul. They both seem to have forgotten Smaug entirely, and a dragon is not something to leave out of your plans and expect to keep your life.

There is a chill in his heart, and his back is afire from neck to hips in unwilling remembrance. Long has Bofur kept those names locked with his darkest thoughts. To hear them on his brother's tongue, and after so many years...

He will sleep poorly this night, and all the nights after, it seems, for the wills of his kinsmen are set, and Bofur has always been one to bend to the wind than stand against it, though it does not ease the secret fears in his heart.

 

 

 

 


	2. A Shadow

Bofur followed at the heels of the last man as they climbed out of the mine into the purple haze of twilight. The city of Minas Tirith glittered to the right in the last feeble rays of sunlight, and the miners turned gladly towards it, hefting their tools on their brawny shoulders. Bofur paused a moment, looking back over the fields of Pelennor and into the distance where all became murky and unclear. Somewhere beyond there were his kin, and he missed them most keenly at the dawning and the ending of the day.

He had left Bombur working as a cook in the Bell and Bottle, a tavern of ill-repute on the road to Gondor. The pay was meagre and the lodgings plain, but the owner had no qualms about having a dwarf in his employ. And well he shouldn't, with Bombur shouldering the work of ten men in the kitchen for half the coin. The man also cast a blind eye to Bifur's queer ways. His cousin spent most of the day in bed, or sitting in a chair staring out the window of the loft. Bofur hoped that the amount of time Bifur spent sleeping was his body's way of healing itself- but it had been two years since the orc attack, and Bofur had long since stopped expecting his cousin to wake up one morning speaking and acting as he used to.

Bofur had left the tavern looking for work three months past, having caught wind of the mines carved into the rock of old Mindolluin. The foreman had baulked at letting him into the mines, but eventually the tales of the expertise of the Dwarves with rock and stone swayed the man, and Bofur had walked down into the familiar darkness to ply his trade. The foreman told his men that they were digging for coal, but on their breaks, pipes in hand, the miners spread rumours amongst themselves of chains of diamonds, veins of rubies like blood in the rock. They were pretty dreams, but only that. Bofur suspected that any secrets the mountain held as she cradled the White City would be buried deep beyond the grasping hands of Men. Bofur kept his doubts to himself, however. The miners were happy to ignore his presence, and punctuated their silence with suspicious looks and clutches at their coin purses. Tales of gold-fever, it seemed, had spread even this far, and Men seemed to regard it as a characteristic of the Dwarves, rather than an affliction.

"Bofur?"

Snatched from his reverie, Bofur turned in surprise. It was the boy Haldor, the youngest of the miners, and the only one who had approached Bofur of his free will. They had struck up an odd sort of friendship, despite the disapproval of the boy's father. Haldor was curious and full of questions, not yet prey to the prejudices of the older men, and Bofur was glad of someone to talk to. He had told the lad stories about Erebor and Moria, and watched his eyes widen at his colourful description of Smaug the Terrible.

"Bofur, they're going to close the gate."

"Haldor!" The boy's father called from further down the slope, a bite of impatience in his tone.

Haldor's smile faltered at the sound, and he turned his head anxiously to peer into the dusk. Bofur sighed and began to walk towards him, leaning on his mattock.

"Go on to your father, lad. I'm coming."

The boy flashed him a swift grin and ran, his dark hair flying as he dashed down the slope, sending loose pebbles clattering after him.

Bofur ducked through the main gate as it swung to, enduring the disapproving glares of the guards, and walked up the street in the darkness. His lodgings were on the lowest level of the city, convenient to the location of the mines, and Bofur had never had cause to venture to the second level or above. Once Bofur's curiosity had gotten the best of him, and the embarassment of being turned back by the guards at the second gate as though he were a thief still made him wince in shame. Ahead, a group of men spilled out of an inn, laughing and shouting raucously, and Bofur turned aside into an alley. If the men of Gondor were unwelcoming and suspicious of him in the daylight, they were openly hostile at night, their courage swelled by drink and their companions. It was easier to avoid them altogther, and even if one part of him whispered _coward_ , there was another part that said _remember your kin, and survive_.

Bofur tipped his head back against the wall, settling down to wait until the rowdy group moved on before continuing. His stomach pinched with emptiness, and he thought longingly of his bed, a crude thing of straw and threadbare blankets, but softer at least than the ground. In the thin patch of sky between the buildings, stars were strung in a great pattern, flickering blue and white like remote, tiny jewels.

Beside him, a huge shadow lumbered free of its fellows, unpeeling from the wall like some monster from the beginning of the world. Bofur jumped backwards, his heart jerking in his chest, raising his mattock between him and the thing in the dark. Behind him there came a grunt of effort, and Bofur turned to see a length of wood whistling towards his head. It struck, and a roaring filled his ears. Bofur found himself on his knees, the ground lurching crazily under him. He saw his mattock, and reached for it desperately. A huge hand curled around his throat, squeezed, dragged him backwards. Bofur's hands found his attacker's. He began to grind the delicate bones of the wrist and something snapped under his fingers.

There was a rush of foul air against his cheek, a curse and the wood cracked against his cheekbone, turning Bofur's face to fire from temple to jaw. He continued to roll the bones in the hand of the man choking him, tightening his grip until he was rewarded with a scream.

"He's _breaking my arm_ , Duin, hurry! Hit him!"

"Stop your whining, Turgon. These bastard Dwarves are tough."

Bofur felt a thrill of fear at the other man's tone. It was cold, professional. This was no act of drunken cruelty. _Slavers,_ Bofur thought, and wrenched the man's hand as hard as he could. Then the wood came down a third time, and a white pain flared in Bofur's skull. The stars wheeled above and exploded, and the ground rushed to meet him as he fell.


	3. Regrets

Dwarves are not naturally given to foresight or visions. It was said that Durin the Deathless had dreams that were recorded in ancient scrolls, of events that became truth after the passing of his sons, and that perhaps the descendents of the Durin line have the gift, though it shows itself rarely and is kept a secret. There is no mention of any other clan bearing the gift, and the few that have claimed as such have been exposed as liars and madmen.

Bofur himself has never had cause to think about such things, until the night he extends his hand to Thorin Oakenshield's, to bind himself and his kin to the madness of this quest. It should have been Bifur's role, as the eldest of the Broadbeams represented, but since his injury the task has fallen to Bofur. It saddens him, for Bifur is no drooling imbecile, nor a half-wit, nor a fool, but when even other dwarves looked askance at his cousin when he stepped forward to take responsibility for the clan, Bofur has sought to protect him. Bombur has gone silent and watchful, as he always is with strangers, even if they are Thorin and his heirs, and so it falls to Bofur to sign the contract, to pledge allegiance on behalf of himself and his family, and to seal the agreement with a traditional handclasp.

Thorin's warm fingers slide along his wrist. Their palms, roughened with years of labour, scratch as they brush together. And Thorin's dark gaze wavers, splinters -

_There is a gentle breeze cooling the back of his neck. It tugs at his braids with the scent of woodsmoke, and more faintly, flowers. Bofur is kneeling on the riverbank, and his reflection is calm in the shades of evening. Thorin Oakenshield steps from the water, and there are droplets on his shining silver blade. It is carved with odd markings, and pale as the moon. Thorin steps close behind him, and the steel touches his neck as lightly as a kiss. Then it withdraws, and with a grunt of effort, Thorin swings the sword with all the weight of his body behind it. Bofur watches a streak of blood arch out across the water, and a coldness steals over his limbs._

Bofur jerks his hand away, and he trembles like a deer in the sights of the hunter. He cannot tell if that was his sight or Thorin's, and for a moment the dwarf king levels an odd gaze at him. His brows knit, and Bofur expects him to bellow for his guardsman at any moment. He takes a hasty step backwards, and the desire to run crowds out all rational thought in his head for one terrifying moment.

"We leave in three days. Settle your affairs and meet us on the Road at dawn."

Then Thorin turns back to the fireplace, and just like that, their audience is over. It is Balin who approaches, and welcomes them to the Company, and soon the Broadbeams are surrounded by their fellow members; Balin's hulking brother Dwalin, Oin the healer and Gloin whose young son Gimli stands at his shoulder, a respectable looking fellow called Dori, and his brothers Nori, who looks more than half a scoundrel, and Ori, a mere dwarfling clutching his new travel journal in undisguised joy at being included.

By then Bofur is beginning to get over his fear, and has a fine mug of ale in his hand. Bifur is drinking deeply from his own mug, and even Bombur is relaxing enough to exchange a few words with Balin. But then a hand falls upon his shoulder, and Bofur near jumps out of his skin at the sensation so near his neck. He whirls to find two identical grins, surrounded by fine clouds of gold and brown hair respectively.

"Fili-"

"And Kili-"

" _At your service_."

Bofur blinks in suprise as the two princes bow to him and then straighten. It is Fili who has inherited his uncle's proud and confident stance, and Kili his colouring, but there is thread of good humour and joy in the two young dwarves that is completely absent in Thorin.

"Bofur at yours and your family's." He replies, and manages with great skill to keep his hat firmly in place as he bows.

Kili seems impressed by this feat, as his eyebrows leap in amusement. But it is Fili who speaks, and his pleasant face is crinkled in confusion.

"I'm sorry, but have we met before? It seems that I know your voice."

The length of Bofur's spine burns.

"There are many dwarves in the Blue Mountains with my accent - aye, more than a score. I'm not surprised you are familiar with it. But as for me, I have never had the pleasure of meeting either of you. I don't forget a face, me. It's a gift."

He smiles easily, and turns their talk to other matters. For after all, it is not truly a lie. He never did see Fili and Kili in that place, and they never saw him. It is the rhythm of his voice that Fili recognises, and little wonder, when Bofur wore it again and again to near-silence as he whispered stories and songs through the crack in the stone to keep the little princes quiet.

* * *

When Thorin begins to sing, it is as though every inch of Bofur has been doused in cold water.

" _Far over the Misty Mountains cold,_

Thorin is behind him, in the darkness of the hobbit hole, and the flames in the fireplace dance golden on the walls.

_Through dungeons deep, and caverns old,_

His voice is rich, and so very deep, as though it comes out of the depths of his lost mountain. He is singing from some black underworld, and the faces of the Company in the dark look like death masks.

_We must away, ere break of day,_

Nori turns his head slightly from where he is crouched on the window seat, and his dark gaze flickers over Bofur and away. Balin takes up the old tune.

_To find our long forgotten gold."_

Bofur adds his voice without meaning to, for Bifur, who cannot, and Bombur, who chooses only to hum, but also because he feels something in that moment, as though there is a path unwinding beneath his feet that he cannot help but follow.

_"The pines were roaring on the height,_

_The winds were moaning in the night,_

And he sees-

_He has backed Thorin against a tree, and his dirty hands are wrapped in the king's glorious hair, sinking into it like living strands of night. The forest is cold, and close, and full of ghastly noises, but Bofur doesn't care. Thorin's eyes are blue as the hidden sky, and his heart thrums away in his chest like the strokes of a miner as he cleaves the stone, and then his teeth scrape Thorin's neck. He bites hard, and the blood he draws tastes right, here where the darkness is a thing of terror. The blood of his king is on his tongue, and Thorin releases a growl that shudders between their bodies, and he drags Bofur's mouth to his. There is a scrabbling sound in the branches overhead, but neither care to stop long enough to look for danger, though their muscles tense in reflexes born of bloody experience._

Bofur blinks, and the drawing room swims back into view. He is still singing, as though his tongue belongs to another.

_The fire was red, it flaming spread,_

_The trees like torches blazed with light."_

The song fades, and the dwarves stir quietly, stretching and looking about as they are released from its power. Most are ready now for bed, and they keep the poor hobbit - Bilbo _Boggins_ was it, that was what Kili had said- running from room to room trying to accommodate them all. He looked flustered and comical with his hands flapping and his beardless face so anxious. Bofur silently doubts, as he opens the oddly round front door and steals outside for a smoke, that the hobbit will be with them come the morrow. No one had ever fainted during one of Bofur's tales, not even the most delicate dwarrowdam or dwarfling, and he had not even begun to explain the other ways a dragon might come to eat you, trapping you with their cunning or bursting upon you from the empty sky or rending you with their fangs and claws.

He shakes his head, and lights his pipe, a tiny cheerful glow under the sea of stars. His mind turns, against his will, back to the vision he had suffered. It had felt so real, down to the roughness of Thorin's beard on his jaw, and the taste of blood on his tongue. But Thorin loving him is of course impossible. Thorin executing him with a silver sword by a river is disturbing, but more likely, he fears, of the two sights.

Is it the future he has been seeing in these strange moments outside of time? Why would Mahal send him the experience of his own death before time? Is it a warning? Bofur turns the questions about and about in his mind, but has no answers. The door creaks, and Bofur turns idly to head back inside. The shadow cast by the warm glow inside the hole is wide, it is most likely Bombur come to urge him to bed. But when Bofur looks up, it is Thorin's eyes he meets, a pipe smouldering in his hands, come to smoke, and likely to think in the hours before dawn.

At the sight of him, Bofur cannot help recalling the sensation of being pressed against him, the scent of his hair, the desire warming his usually cold and distant eyes. He flushes and must look away, down the hill to where other hobbit holes lie cozily nestled amongst the meadows. Thorin hooks a hand around his belt and lets out a stream of smoke into the clear moonlit air.

"You should sleep." He remarks, and his eyes move over the quiet land of the Shire in distaste, or perhaps jealousy, for this fertile country and its round and comfortable people.

Bofur, fool that he is, pauses in the doorway, his heart surging into his mouth like a stoked forge.

"Would you like some company?"

Thorin doesn't hesitate, or even turn around.

"No."

Bofur stumbles quickly inside, and closes the door far more loudly than he intended to. He curses himself for believing even for a moment in these wild fancies dreamed up by his obviously drink-addled mind. Then Mr Boggins is there, with shadows under his eyes and his hair all mussed from running his hands through it, and shows him to his room with a sort of detatched despair, as though the first thing Bofur will do when he turns his back is destroy it.

Bofur smiles at his host's slumped shoulders as he drags his feet down the hall, and then goes to shove Bombur off his half of the bed.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! RL has been crushing me with its petty demands on my time, and it took a while to throw that mother off and flee for the writing desk.

**Author's Note:**

> It seems I can't keep away from this fandom (or this pairing). This story has been circling my brain like a shark, demanding to be written. To whoever reads this: We're off the edge of the map.


End file.
